Memoirs of a Teenage Trainer
by Marchenplushie28
Summary: A sixteen-year-old trainer recounts her exploits over the years, and the moments that have truly made up the fabric of her journey.
1. Prolog

_**Description: **A sixteen-year-old trainer recounts her exploits, and the moments that really made up the fabric of her journey._

* * *

**Prologue**

I wonder where I should start. What moment was the exact one that my journey really began? Waking up six years ago, the morning that I'd been counting down to for months, and groggily realizing that it was _the day_? Holding a pokéball in my hand for the first time, the cool, smooth exterior making me shiver with excitement? Or perhaps seeing my pokémon appear in a surreal burst of light, and knowing it was _my_ pokémon?

Looking back, I don't think I could really say any moment was the exact beginning. In life, there never really is one. All the moments just mesh together to make a story that somehow sums up the flow of a person's days. As a writer I suppose it's my job to pick the moment that's the best beginning though, so here it is—my story, the best way I know how to tell it.

* * *

_**A/N:** This is an insanely OC-centric story, just to let you all know. There will be interaction with actual characters at points, but for the majority (at least at the time being) I'm not planning on making them an integral part of the story. Also something you should know: this really is going to be like a set of memoirs. There isn't any huge plot that I'm going to weave into them or anything; it's just the life of a girl that happens to live in the pokemon world. Hopefully it'll be a fun little read though if you like pokemon. I know it's fun for me to write. ^_^_


	2. Screwed Three Ways For Starters

**Screwed Three Ways For Starters**

I've had a lot of bad experiences with fire in my life, and a lot of bad experiences with things that have large fangs in their mouths, so when given the choice between Cyndaquil (a pokémon whose back spontaneously combusts into fire every now and again), Totodile (a big jawed brute with a hell of a bite attack), and Chikorita for my starter pokémon, my choice was obvious.

Squished between two bulky boys, spring's chilled 6 AM air at my back, I muttered the name under my breath. "Chikorita, Chikorita, Chikorita…" Puffs of condensed air escaped my mouth with each repetition, the foggy white floating upwards and sticking to my glasses in a thin layer, obscuring my vision of the small lab that all of us new and soon-to-be new pokémon trainers were standing together in front of. It was way too cold for spring that year.

Professor Elm was at the boy to my left, an overenthusiastic smile forcing his tired lips upwards despite the temperature and time. "What pokémon do you want?" he questioned.

The boy's forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Ah…" he paused, thinking, and then burst out with, "Cyndaquil! I choose Cyndaquil!"

I grimaced, pushing myself as close to the other boy as I could without seeming like a complete weirdo. Elm uttered some small words of worn wisdom accompanied by a half sigh caught midway through execution, and dropped the pokéball into Cyndaquil boy's chubby waiting hands.

He clenched it between swollen fingers, eyeing the miniature ball with his buggy little eyes, cheeks puffing out like bread rising. Fortunately for me, he, unlike many of the others in line, chose not to release his pokémon at that moment and instead placed it in the side pouch of his bag with painstaking care.

Elm took a step forward and turned to me. "And what about you?" he asked.

My chest constricted, breath catching in my throat. I wasn't prepared anymore; I'd gotten too caught up in hoping it wouldn't be necessary to be in a two foot range of an inexperienced fire pokémon.

After a few frantic moments of searching, I muttered quickly, "Ah, Chikorita."

The professor gave me a knowing look, smile turning real for a second as he pulled a pokéball—_my_ pokéball—out of his starched white lab coat and placed it in my upturned palm. It felt lighter than I expected, like a marble compared to an orange.

My thumb brushed the cool apricorn surface, bumping against the release button. A stream of light emanated from it, shooting off like lighting to form a little green creature with two wide eyes and a thick leaf hanging to the side of them, rooted to the head by a pliable stem. "Chika?" it squeaked, blinking up at me.

I grinned, tension releasing and my chest swelling with pride. My pokémon. My Chikorita.

"Hi there," I said, leaning down so that I was face to face with it. "I'm your new master." It tilted its head to the side, looking at me curiously, and I reached out my hand, brushing my fingertips against the front of its leaf. The textured surface sent chills through me as I ran my fingers across it and at that moment the freezing air, the fire pokémon, the big jawed Totodiles….none of it mattered.

Then it used razor leaf on me.

My vision flashed white as a sharp collection of leaves came ricocheting from its thick head leaf and collided with my face one after another, a tingling sensation spreading through my nose. As I stumbled back, falling to the ground with a pain inducing thud, I vaguely recall Professor Elm saying something in a stressed tone before registering a bright flash of light that meant my pokémon had returned to its pokéball.

The world in front of me slowly came into focus. Elm held out his hand and I took it cautiously, hoisting myself up off the ground and biting back a groan at the dull ache of my bottom. "Um—I—sorry!" I muttered, cheeks warm, contrasting the natural temperature of the area.

"It's alright," Elm said placing the pokéball back in my hand which, at some point, had rolled away. "Some pokémon are…touchy at first. Just be careful." Then he moved on, taking a step forward to the next trainer-to-be.

I looked down at the pokéball in my hand, squeezing the red and white in my fist with a frown. It was then that I realized that no matter what pokémon I picked we were going to have issues with each other. I'd just have to deal with it.


	3. Battle Burnout

**A/N:** _Wooo. Update. Is anyone even reading this? I mean, I don't really care. I'm going to keep updating it either way. I was just wondering. Hmmm..._

_Oh, and there's a Hetalia reference in here! I love Hetalia. A lot._

_America: I'm glad you think [the plane] is stylin' 'cause it was made to help me beat the holy hell out of you!_

_Britain: O.O_

_Random Dude: Um, excuse me, but wasn't that supposed to stay a secret sir?_

_America: Yes. Yes it was! =D  
_

**Battle Burnout**

My first day as a Pokémon trainer was uneventful. I walked. I ate. I slept. I kept my Chikorita in its ball for fear of another violent outburst.

The second day didn't go quite as well.

I arrived at a town around noon, the sun beating down overhead, seriously regretting the fact that I'd forgotten my sunscreen at home. Thankfully my face was the only part of me fully exposed, and when I reached up a hand to feel it tentatively, there was only a dull pain present.

Pulling my hand down, I shoved it into my pocket and jangled around loose change as I walked, examining the town. There were lots of shops, mostly touristy looking, and a couple restaurants squished between them. There didn't seem to be any houses, but I supposed there was a residential area separate from this where people lived. It was like that in my town too.

Eventually, my stomach made itself known, growling loudly, and I stopped at a small hotdog stand to pick something up. The vendor smiled at me as I fumbled with pulling out money and separating the bills. "Sorry I'm slow…" I mumbled, shoving the counted bills forward for him to take. He grinned and shook his head as he plucked them out of my palm.

"Business is business, and as long as the customer is pleasant I'm in no rush." He grinned more widely then, and pointed to the pokéball hanging off my belt with one thick finger. "Pokémon trainer?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yeah. Just starting out."

The man ducked down behind his cart, rummaged through a few things with a clang there and a clink here, then came back up with a small plastic container and held it out to me. "For your Pokémon," he told me. "No charge."

I almost argued, but who's really going to say no to free food? I needed to get some for my Chikorita anyway.

After sheepishly taking the container and scurrying away, I wandered around, eating as I went, until I found a bench to sit on. The hotdog was then finished in seconds flat, and I pulled Chikorita's pokéball off my belt. The weight still felt somewhat odd in my hand. I hefted it once, twice. My thumb pressed into the release button.

Chikorita seemed a little pissed that I'd left it (Him? Yes, the professor had said it was a him.) in the ball so long, but overall didn't look murderous or anything. I waved to him cautiously, smiling, and peeled the plastic top off the container. Before I could even see what was inside it, Chikorita had jumped up onto the bench beside me and was digging in. Greedy, are we? I laughed, fighting the urge to reach out and pat his head fondly. After last time, it seemed like a sort of bad idea. Instead, I swung my legs back and forth humming the tune to an old nursery rhyme—Three Blind Rattata, I believe—and just watched him for a while.

I was running through the rhyme a third time when a voice rang out behind me. "You know," it said, "blind Rattata are actually quite adept at survival."

I twisted around, one arm falling over the back of the bench, to see a scrawny, brown haired boy. He had a pair of glasses that had obviously seen their share of wear and tear resting on the bridge of his nose, which he adjusted as he continued. "Chikoritas, on the other hand, would be quite useless. They don't have as good hearing to compensate with, you see."

Chikorita made a small sound of what could only be considered disdain, and I laughed, glancing from my Pokémon to the boy. He stood there, a cocky smile on his face, until I replied with an amused, "Yeah?" He shrugged at me. The bench was digging into my back painfully, but I ignored it. "Are you saying that Rattatas are _better_ than Chikoritas?" I asked. He gave another noncommittal shrug and Chikorita let out an even more pronounced yelp.

"Well…" I paused. Did I really want to do this on my second day of being a trainer? My Pokémon wouldn't even let me properly touch it yet. The boy raised his eyebrows expectantly. I sighed. This was going to end badly. "I don't suppose you have a way we could test out the superiority of one over another?"

"I just might," he said. And that was how my day went from pretty well to crap.

We ended up making the battle right there—unofficial though since there was no one to judge it. He pulled out his pokéball, and Chikorita hopped down from the bench, riled up from his comments and ready to go as we arranged ourselves. When we were all set, his Rattata eagerly shifting from paw to paw, Chikorita kicking at the ground angrily, he raised his hand up in the air and then dropped it with finality. "Match, begin!" he shouted.

Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I rocked forward on the balls of my feet, lips opening to shout a command. The air around felt charged with electricity, my hair standing on every end. I began to shout, "Chikorita!" This was our first time in battle, working together. This would be my first _ever_ command.

Then, before I could get any farther, the Rattata charged forward, flames bursting from its body, and barreled into Chikorita. I didn't even know Rattatas could use Flame Wheel. Apparently so.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

Chikorita was down for the count. Rattata danced victoriously back to its owner, and I stood there dumbfounded.

* * *

Later, after the boy introduced himself ("I'm Derek, if you want to know who just beat the holy hell out of you. Don't feel bad though. I beat the gym leader in the town up ahead, too."), he offered to take me out to a restaurant to make up for my utter humiliation. I dejectedly agreed, if only for more free food, and sat poking at my dish as he enthusiastically went on about all his recent conquests. He was quite the trainer, according to himself anyway. He'd beaten three gyms already, and was just stopping in the town to rest.

Finally, when he'd finished with his bragging and I still hadn't touched my food, he leaned over the table, grinning knowingly. "Still sore about the battle?" he asked.

I glared up at him through my eyelashes, slumping down in my seat and mumbling something unintelligible about him being a cheater. I'm not quite sure what the exact phrase was, but it was something incredibly rude and nasty, I'm sure.

He laughed at this.

"Not cheating. Just good breeding and strategy," Derek said. I stuck my tongue out at him, and he laughed some more and took my food since I 'obviously wasn't going to eat it'.

I harrumphed and mourned the loss of a good meal, even if it probably had gotten cold by then.


End file.
